by Joan Smith
“It might be best if you leave, Lady Crieff,” Stanby said. “Ponsonby is a trifle disguised.” He turned to Hartly. “You accompany Lady Crieff to her room, Hartly. Bullion and I will see that Ponsonby gets to bed.”
It occurred to Hartly that Sir David could accompany Lady Crieff safely upstairs. The lady did not suggest it, however. She turned her sparkling eyes on Hartly and said, “What riffraff one meets in a place like this. Thank heaven there is one gentleman present.”
“Lady Crieff?” he said, offering her his arm.
“My hero!” She laughed and placed her dainty fingers on his arm.
“I am the one who held Ponsonby off!” Jonathon exclaimed indignantly.
“So you did. Run along, David,” she said, dismissing him without a word of thanks. “It is past your bedtime.”
Jonathon appeared accustomed to doing as he was told. He ran upstairs without arguing.
Lady Crieff turned a flirtatious smile on her hero. “I should not have stayed in the Great Room,” she said, “but it was so lonely and boring in my room, with nothing to do. And it is not as though I were a young deb. I was a married lady for three years. As a widow, I am allowed some leeway, do you not think, Mr. Hartly?”
“Certainly, madam, but perhaps a little discretion is advised in future. The other ladies left the room an hour ago.”
She made a moue, while gazing invitingly into his eyes. “You think I am horrid. It is very lonesome being a widow, Mr. Hartly,” she said. “I had to watch my p’s and q’s at Penworth Hall. You have no idea how the old cats squeal if you look sideways at a gentleman. But I had thought that here I might be a little freer.”
They reached her door. Moira was eager to escape, but she doubted that Lady Crieff would dismiss a handsome young gentleman so swiftly. Besides, this was a perfect opportunity to quiz him a little, to discover what he was up to.
“Would you think I was very fast if I invited you into my sitting room for a glass of wine, Mr. Hartly? David will be in the next room. We could leave the door open.”
Hartly assumed the lady was open for dalliance. A widow, after all, and not a very cautious one, to judge by her behavior. “If you promise you won’t seduce me, Lady Crieff,” he replied, with a rakish smile that made a mockery of the words.
She said archly, “Why, Mr. Hartly! I would not have the least notion how to set about it, I promise you.”
“Pity,” he murmured.
Moira gave a nervous gurgle of laughter and unlocked the door. The lamps were burning in the sitting room. A bottle of wine and glasses sat on the sofa table beside the grate. She made a commotion about unlocking David’s door, but Hartly noticed she did not actually leave it open.
“I shall be right in here with Mr. Hartly, David,” she said. “We shan’t disturb you. Do not forget to brush your teeth. Sleep tight, dear.”
Then she went to the sofa. Hartly had already poured the wine. He lifted his glass in a toast. “That is that!” she said, and sat down beside him. “I try to be a mother to the boy, since he has lost his papa. He is a good lad. Not terribly bright, you know, but good-hearted.”
“And discreet, I trust?” he asked, glancing to the closed door.
She gave a coy glance. “Whatever can you mean, Mr. Hartly? I am sure I would never do anything that would ruin my reputation.”
“When you are in Scotland, you mean?”
She sniffed. Mr. Hartly was beginning to examine her in a predatory way. She decided it was time to begin her quizzing.
“What do you think of Major Stanby?” she asked in a casual manner.
“I know virtually nothing of the man. I met him only today. I do not think you need worry about him, but I should avoid having much to do with young Ponsonby if I were you.”
Ponsonby was of no interest to her. “He has come far from home—the Lake District. Major Stanby, I mean.”
“But not so far as yourself.”
She bit her lip in uncertainty. She had no wish to show she doubted Stanby’s account of himself, yet it would be interesting to hear what Hartly had to say about his blunder.
“It is odd that he does not know the lake made famous by the poets. It is Grasmere, not Windermere.” She looked at Hartly. He just shrugged. “But then a major would not be much interested in poetry.”
“And he has been out of the country besides,” Hartly mentioned. Of more interest to him was that Lady Crieff had ever heard of the Lake poets. “Are you interested in poetry, Lady Crieff?”
She swiftly raked her mind to consider what Lady Crieff’s views on poetry might be. “Sir Aubrey had no interest in poetry. Except for Robbie Burns,” she added, naming the one Scottish poet that came to mind.
“But I was not speaking of your late husband; I was speaking of you,” he said.
“Why, you must know it is a wife’s duty to like what her husband likes, Mr. Hartly.”
“Perhaps—while her husband is alive,” he said, gazing into her silver eyes.
An air of tension began to build as the silence stretched between them. A dozen vague thoughts whirled through Hartly’s mind. It was Stanby who had suggested he accompany Lady Crieff abovestairs. Was that a clumsy attempt to throw them together? Was the lady about to initiate some scheme to empty his pockets? It was odd she had mentioned Stanby’s blunder if she was his accomplice. And Stanby had openly questioned her respectability as well.
“But Sir Aubrey, alas, is gone now,” he said, reading her face for signs of her intentions. “And we are here.”
“It is odd, our meeting here. And Standby putting up at a little out-of-the-way place like this as well,” she added casually.
“You are forgetting Ponsonby,” he said, going along with her. “A man must be someplace.”
She did not want to incite Hartly to too much suspicion, so she said, “That is true. The reason I mention it ... Well, the fact is, I am traveling with something of considerable value. I just wondered if you thought there was any risk from the major.”
A warning bell rang inside his head. Why was she telling him this? Was the lady about to involve him in some shady business of her own, some business that had nothing to do with Stanby? He remembered her look of fear when the major had been introduced to her.
“Have you any reason to think so?” he asked.
Moira bit back her annoyance at his unhelpful response. “Not really. It is just the way he looks at me, with those horrid gooseberry eyes, saying all the right things but not meaning them.”
“I think you are overly imaginative, Lady Crieff, but if you dislike the man, you need have nothing to do with him.”
She let her head fall forward, then looked up at him shyly from the corners of her beautiful eyes. “I am glad you are here to protect me, Mr. Hartly.”
Hartly considered it as good as an invitation. His arm reached out and went around her shoulder. He pulled her against his chest. Lord, but she was a beauty, with those deep silver pools of eyes and ripe cherry lips, just asking to be kissed. The creamy mounds of her full breasts strained against their velvet nest. As if by instinct, he raised his hand and placed it on her breast. She gave a convulsive leap.
“What are you doing, Mr. Hartly!” she exclaimed in a shocked whisper, though her voice was not raised, presumably to prevent David from hearing.
“Just what you invited me here to do, milady. Making love to you.”
Without further ado, he crushed her against him and plundered those full, lush lips. He paid no heed when she made an attempt to free herself, taking it for a token resistance, to save face.
Moira felt helpless. She admitted it was at least partly her own fault, as she had invited Hartly into her room. She knew she was in no real danger, with Jonathon next door. She could make some commotion—shout or knock over a lamp—but she was not happy to let Jonathon see what was happening.
Living quietly in the country, she had had no opportunity to discover the secrets of love. Naturally it was a matter that intrigued her
deeply, and here was her chance to learn. It was not at all what she had imagined her first kiss being like. She had pictured a gentle embrace, perhaps by moonlight, with a tame lover asking permission.
Hartly’s embrace was nothing like that. He did not ask; he took, and she found that, after all, that was the way an embrace should be. There should be a sense of compulsion to it. She stopped trying to push him away and gave herself over to the strange experience. Odd how lips pressing on lips sent those hot rushes of pleasure through the whole body. When Hartly moved one arm away, she did not rush to free herself but waited to see what he would do. She felt his fingers lightly brushing her cheek. It felt pleasant at first, but when his fingers began to slide down toward her breast, she drew them back up.
His lips continued nibbling at hers, murmuring husky endearments against her fevered cheek. “My God, you are a temptress, milady.” His warm fingers found their way to the bodice of her gown but did not stray lower. “Your skin is like Devon cream, so lush and smooth.”
Moira felt a stab of weakness invade her being. She was allowing Mr. Hartly unspeakable liberties. What would Lady Marchbank think if she ever found out? “You must not say such things, Mr. Hartly!” she said primly.
He lifted his head and gazed at her with wildly dilated eyes, which were like a glitter of dark sapphires. Then he lowered his head and kissed her again. She felt a flicker of moistness pressing insistently against her lips. What was he doing? She pulled away sharply. His arms went around her, pulling her more tightly against him until her soft breasts melded to his firm chest.
An inchoate gasp hovered on the air. In her state of perturbation, she was not sure whether it came from herself or Mr. Hartly. Her fingers rose to tangle in his crisp hair. She felt his strong hands drawing along the contours of her sides, measuring her small waist, lingering over the flare of hips.
When he lifted his head, he was breathing heavily, and his face was flushed. He was immensely relieved that she was only a lightskirt and nothing more.
“Is he asleep yet?” he asked in a ragged voice. “I cannot take much more of this. Let us go to your bedchamber. He will not hear through the sitting room. I want you now.”
Moira drew back and blinked dumbly. “Mr. Hartly!” she said. “I hope you do not think I am that sort of girl!”
A bark of laughter erupted on the still air. “I know exactly what sort of girl you are, milady. Come, why waste time? Or is there a fee to be settled first? Is that it?”
“What ... what do you mean?” she asked in perplexity.
“I mean do you charge for your services, or is this an exercise in mutual gratification? I have no objection either way.”
“What services?” She blinked twice, then a mask of outrage seized her features. “Mr. Hartly! You had better leave at once.”
“The hell I will. You brought me here. You have excited me beyond control.”
He made a lunge for her. Moira leapt up and grabbed the poker. “Get out.”
Hartly looked at her and saw the real anger sparking in her eyes. Those lips that had been so warmly inviting a moment ago were now firmed in determination.
“Well, well,” he said satirically. “It was misleading for you to suggest Stanby should be watched, madam. It is women like you who ought to be banned from decent establishments.”
Moira bit her underlip. There was some truth in what Mr. Hartly was implying. She had led him on, but she had not intended for it to go so far. Even she had nearly lost control, and from what her friends told her, gentlemen had a much harder time of it.
Her hand flew to her lips, and tears started in her eyes. “Oh, Mr. Hartly, whatever must you think of me? But I did not mean for it to happen. Indeed I did not.” She gave a hiccup of fear. “I had no notion. ... You must forgive me. You will not tell anyone?”
Hartly just stood, staring in confusion. It seemed impossible that a widow had so little notion how lovemaking proceeded on its inevitable course. Just how old had her husband been?
“I am not likely to boast of my failure,” he said grimly.
“Failure? But . . . but it was rather enjoyable, was it not?” she asked uncertainly.
A rueful smile seized his lips. “So it was, madam. But when a man is shown an appetizing dish, he usually expects to do more than look at it. I suggest you bear it in mind in future. Good night.”
He strode to the door and opened it.
“I am sorry, Mr. Hartly,” she said in a small voice.
He stopped and looked back at her. Her fingers were raised to her lips. Her angry determination had changed to an appealing air of uncertainty. She looked about fifteen years old and as innocent as a maiden.
“So am I, Lady Crieff,” he said with great feeling.
“Do you still want to take me and David for that drive tomorrow?”
He just looked at her, shaking his head in wonder. “Well, if that don’t beat the Dutch,” he said, and left.
He went straight to his room to ponder the strange interlude. A wanton widow had invited him to her chamber. She had welcomed his embraces, had shown every eagerness for his advances. Then suddenly she turned into an outraged female. And if that were not enough to confuse Solomon, she had apologized after and asked if he still wanted to see her tomorrow. He decided he must be as mad as Lady Crieff—because he was eager for their date.
After Hartly had thought about that odd episode, he began to feel some concern for Ponsonby, who had been bragging about his full pockets. Stanby might relieve him of that thousand pounds.
Mott came to the door of the adjoining room. “Well, what happened?” he asked.
Hartly had to think a moment before he realized Mott was inquiring about Stanby.
“He let me win a few pounds tonight,” he replied. “We have a private game fixed for tomorrow night. That is when we’ll make our move. A fellow called Ponsonby arrived. He was completely foxed.” He told Mott about the man, adding his concern that Stanby might fleece him.
“I shall take a nip down and see he is all right,” Mott said. “This troublesome master of mine wants a posset at half past midnight. A valet’s work is never done.”
He was just about to open the door when he heard someone walking briskly down the hall. He let the man pass, then opened the door a crack. Hartly went to take a peek as well. It was Ponsonby. He was not drunk at all but walking in a straight, purposeful way. Hartly was seized with the notion that he was heading for Lady Crieff’s room. He watched, but Ponsonby continued past her door to his own room. Another mysterious guest at the Owl House Inn.
Chapter Six
By morning, word of Lady Crieff’s interesting history had begun to seep out. Moira did not see how it was possible, for the maids had not been in to read the clippings, but she knew it as soon as they entered the Great Room for breakfast. All eyes turned to her; after the first telltale hush, a low murmur broke out.
Major Stanby, who was just leaving the room, bowed and said, “Good morning, Lady Crieff, Sir David,” with a new warmth. “A lovely day. I hear Bullion is having a small rout party this evening here in the Great Room. Not what you are accustomed to at Penworth, but perhaps you will honor us with your presence?”
“A party! I should love it, of all things!” she replied.
“You will save a dance for me?”
“But of course, Major. I look forward to it.”
“Can I go?” Jonathon asked eagerly. “You know Papa said I could when I turned sixteen, Lady Crieff.”
“Lawks, you are much too young. But then there will be no one here to see. Oh, Major! How shocking of me. You will be here,” she said, simpering. “But you will forgive me if I am a trifle lenient with the lad. We have both had such a dull scald of it since Sir Aubrey died that we are eager for a little fling.”
“No harm in it.” The major smiled leniently. “With such rakes as Ponsonby present, you will require Sir David as a chaperon.”
“I ain’t a chaperon!” Jonathon exclaimed. “
That is ladies’ work. I am Lady Crieff’s escort.” On that bold speech he took Moira’s arm and led her to the table.
Mr. Ponsonby was not slow to approach them. “I come hanging my head in shame, Lady Crieff,” he said. His head was indeed lowered humbly, but his bold lips were grinning. “I have it from all quarters that I behaved abominably last evening.”
“So you did, sir,” she replied, with a pert glance. “You called me a wench!”
“It was the brandy speaking. I place half the blame in your own dish. No lady has the right to be so deuced pretty.”
“Take care, sir,” she replied, peering at him from the corners of her eyes. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”
“I do not wish to be anywhere—except at your feet.”
She gave a careless laugh. “Run along, Mr. Ponsonby. Every dog has his bite. You are forgiven this time, but I shall expect you to behave yourself in future.”
He lifted her hand and placed an ardent kiss on her fingers. “An angel—merciful as well as beautiful. Dare I push my luck further and ask if you will give me a dance this evening? You will come. Say you will.”
“I shall be here. If you are sober, then you may have a dance.”
“Not a drop of wine will pass these lips until we meet again. Your obedient servant, milady.”
He performed a sweeping bow and headed straight to the small room, where he ordered a glass of ale, assuring himself that ale was not wine, and a man had to have a drink from time to time if he was not to die of thirst.
When Moira and Jonathon were alone, she said, “Word of Lady Crieff’s fortune has got about somehow. I wonder if the whole is known. Hang about belowstairs after breakfast and see what you can discover.”
As Jonathon would not be available to escort her for a walk that morning, Moira was in no hurry to leave the Great Room. After breakfast, she went to the settee to have a glance at some magazines placed on the table for the guests’ convenience. She noticed that although Mr. Hartly was in the room, he had not come rushing forward like the others. Perhaps he had not learned how rich Lady Crieff was.